


His Favorite Forgery

by prokopinsky



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Prokopenko, Canon Rewrite, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Dream Pack (Raven Cycle), Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealousy, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Prokopinsky, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Smut, Top Kavinsky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prokopinsky/pseuds/prokopinsky
Summary: Depending on where you began the story, it was about Ilya Prokopenko.A story of self-discovery for the newest version of the long deceased Ilya Prokopenko who has to deal with the reality of being a dream and what this means for his identity. Proko has to explore in how much his thoughts and feelings are his own, especially in relation to Joseph Kavinsky whose newest fixation is one of Ronan Lynch.This story is a rewrite of The Dream Thieves through Prokopenko's eyes with a happy ending where Kavinsky lives.(Tags are to be added as the story progresses.)
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Prokopenko, Mentions of Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish (Implied), Skov/Swan (Raven Cycle)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I have written many TRC fics before but this is my first time exploring the Dream Pack and more specifically Proko as a character and Prokopinsky as a ship and I hope I do them justice. 
> 
> I'm very excited for this story to continue and progress! I had a lot of fun writing this more introductory chapter and I can't wait to actually get into the story in the next one. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing it!

Depending on where you began the story, it was about Ilya Prokopenko. 

The real Ilya Prokopenko, not the forgery currently laying on a grass field, just outside of Henrietta, a new pill already pushed into his mouth by rough, clumsy fingers.

The Ilya Prokopenko who flew head first through the original white Mitsubishi and died in Kavinsky's arms, half burnt and choking on his blood until the end, not the tenth version of the same dream creature come to life, only the vague handcrafted memory visible to him if he concentrated hard. 

The Ilya Prokopenko who had been mourned when the dreaming started, versions of the same boy spewing out of Kavinsky's head, though they were never quite right. The newest forgery, the one now swaying as he tried to keep up with his creator as they walked back to the cars, was the best one to date. They all knew Kavinsky would improve again with the next version, though, and it was only a matter of time before this one was unmade and a newer, more improved Proko would take his place next to Kavinsky.

"You loved him," Proko, the recently dreamt one, had once said in the silence of their dorm room, a cigarette lit between his lips. He had watched the smoke making figures as he waited for an answer that would never come. He knew enough then.

Kavinsky had loved the original, the boy he grew up with, the boy he never took a chance with because he was so wrapped up in his own self-hatred to be with someone who was so unapologetically full of life the way he wanted to be. 

He was still wrapped up in his own self-hatred, Proko knew that much. Kavinsky always hid behind a thin veil of fabricated self-confidence and lost himself in a variety of drugs to numb the pain he wasn't prepared to deal with. It made Proko wonder if Kavinsky would ever be truly happy or if his family had fucked him up too much, if the real Proko had taken that small bit of happiness he had left with him to the grave. 

It also made Proko wonder if Kavinsky could ever love _him._ The fake, the made up version of the person Kavinsky nearly followed into death. 

Proko loved Kavinsky. It was a certainty they both knew was true, though it was unclear whether Proko loved him out of his own free will or because Kavinsky had made him that way. Kavinsky never answered that question either and Proko suspected it was a bit of both, Kavinsky's selfishness and his need for someone to love him because they choose to, not because he made them.

Maybe that's why Kavinsky went after Ronan Lynch now, a person Proko envied like no other. He was Kavinsky's new fixation, the reason they had to attend class the next day despite being too hungover to even walk in a straight line without feeling like they were going to empty their stomachs by the side of the road. Still where Kavinsky went, Proko went, so he got in the car and took his place in the passenger seat, relishing in the few minutes he got to have with Kavinsky alone even if that meant not talking and just listening to the heavy beat thrumming through the stereo.

Kavinsky was gone upon arrival, probably because Ronan looked at Kavinsky in a certain way which made him practically jump out of the car and leave Proko forgotten, having to watch as Kavinsky lit up when he punched Ronan in the face, the action looking like it meant something else entirely.

"We miss him too," Swan said, pulling Proko away from the Mitsubishi with a comfortable arm around his shoulders. "It barely feels like he's part of the pack anymore and he's our leader."

Proko nodded but it wasn't the same for Swan as it was for him. He _loved_ Kavinsky in a way none of the others did, or maybe they did love him like that and he had just convinced himself that he was special, worthy of a chance nobody else had given Kavinsky before.

Swan smiled back at him like he knew what he was thinking but didn't say anything. Swan was by far the most thoughtful person Proko knew in his very limited life. 'The Gentle Giant' as they called him, dangerous and wild like the rest of them but softer around the people he loved. Proko supposed he was one of those people but it could just be that Swan's memory of the old Proko clouded his judgement. Nevertheless, Proko's jealousy was soothed for the time being, though it wouldn't last long before it showed its raging head again. It never did.

Proko felt a rush of pride and satisfaction when Kavinsky sat down next to him in Latin class, an arm swung around the back of Proko's chair as he leaned back lazily. It felt possessive, as if Kavinsky was making a public claim over Proko and with a sickening sense of clarity, Proko realised that he liked it. He liked feeling like he was Kavinsky's because for that brief moment, he was important. Kavinsky chose him over anybody else, over Ronan Lynch even, who was on the other side of the class, looking intensely at the back of a dusty boy's head, his eyes never straying. 

"Makes you angry, doesn't it?" Proko whispered, a challenge laced in his words.

"Shut the fuck up, Proko," came the response, Kavinsky's voice as cold as the space around his chair where Kavinsky's arm had been, a clear indication of how much Proko fucked up. 

It was always 'Proko' with Kavinsky, sometimes Prokopenko in times when Kavinsky was truly pissed and gave Proko one last warning before he would be set off like a detonating bomb with no possibility of stopping it. Kavinsky only called him 'Ilya' rarely, when something shifted in Kavinsky's eyes and he got a glimpse into what Kavinsky was like Before. Proko knew that name wasn't meant for him, though. It was meant for the old Proko and used on the new one when he reminded Kavinsky of something the old one used to do, like humming a song he never listened to while making misshapen pancakes on Sunday mornings when the others were too hungover to do so.

He followed the class in silence after, not bothering with taking notes since he would be replaced in a few months anyway and he wasn't going to give his new version a head start. He didn't think any of the previous Proko's had cared about school since he was so far behind there was no salvaging his grades or a chance for him to graduate and build on a future. Not that it mattered, there was no future for Proko, that chance had died with the original one, scared away by the screams of Kavinsky cradling the body to his chest and taken by flames of the wreckage as the pack tried to drag him away from it. 

Kavinsky had never felt so much pain in his life as he did right there, Proko knew because he dreamt about it sometimes, looking through Kavinsky's eyes as he watched himself die over and over again. It may very well be that Kavinsky had given him a part of his mind whether that was accidental or not and left Proko to deal with the aftermath of it, the nightmares he couldn't shake.

"Could you ever love me?" Proko asked a few hours later, sitting in the window sill of their dorm room, smoking... something. Kavinsky had pressed it into his hands and he hadn't questioned it. "I know I'm not him but..."

"No." 

Proko merely nodded, though his throat felt tight, his eyes watering from the smoke, he tried to convince himself. There wasn't much else he could say to that, nothing he could do to make Kavinsky change his mind.

He was a dream thing and that's all he would ever be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I made this even more painful than I already had... In my defence, sometimes things kinda get really bad before they get better. If you hate me during this, I understand but, hey, as promised, these two will have an happy ending!

He was surrounded by flames.

He had placed a hand on Kavinsky's thigh and was met with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide, the promise of  _ more _ clear, even in the dim light of the Mitsubishi. 

Some song was playing in the background, angry shouting to sober Kavinsky up enough to drive. Proko's orders. Kavinsky's head had lolled towards him again, eyes unfocused as he whispered his name, a confession hidden in the slurred syllables.

They swerved and Proko had laughed. "The road," he protested, his words lost against Kavinsky's lips. Another confession, one that could only be made intoxicated or in the dark, or both. 

"You're more interesting," came the reply and Proko had relented, pulling Kavinsky closer. He had called him a sap then, but he hadn't meant it, not in the way Kavinsky  _ thought _ he meant it. The words weren't a rejection, just mere teasing because Proko, much like Kavinsky, wasn't ready yet to deal with the feelings building inside of him, threatening to rip him apart. He had called him a sap because the words Kavinsky had uttered unfurled something in his chest, something he had to keep hidden still, not knowing he was already running out of time.

Kavinsky drove harder then, though Proko didn't know if he did it because Proko liked the thrill, the engine roaring in his ears or if he sped up to release his own frustration, his anger at Proko's supposed rejection.

Still, Proko closed his eyes and cheered, trusting Kavinsky to take him anywhere. He closed his eyes, the most visible form of trust in the world and he felt Kavinsky's eyes on him, just watching. The air got thicker, the music swelled and this would be the moment where Kavinsky confessed, where Proko made him stop by the side of the road so he could crawl into his lap like he had done many times before, the movement now more natural than walking. 

Instead, the insides of his eyes suddenly reddened as a bright light shone through the windshield. Kavinsky swerved back to the correct lane but he was already too late. There was the sound of crashing, a burst of fire, then smoke.

Proko could feel the gravel of the road underneath his palms as he bled, his body aching with the burns covering most of his skin.

A yell, then footsteps coming closer, running to save him. It was fruitless, he was already dying, both Proko's could feel that.

"I always loved you, Joey," Proko confessed, the last one he'd ever make. It wasn't him moving his lips on his own. He was forced to repeat the original Proko's last words, the original Proko and the tenth fabrication melting into one. 

The real Proko died with Kavinsky's anguished scream in his ears, the dream thing woke up with the same scream, ringing in his own, smoke still in his lungs.

"Proko?" he heard but he couldn't distinguish if it was a part of the nightmare that had wandered with him into the waking world or if it was Kavinsky's voice coming from the other bed. He didn't answer and tossed and turned a little instead, his body feeling  _ wrong _ again as it always did after this particular nightmare. He had shared the body with the original Proko, how Kavinsky had seen him at least and given Proko that piece of history with his creation but it unsettled him more than anything. It made him feel stuck and uncomfortable, like he shouldn't be there, walking and talking like a poor imitation of the original, the same body but a different mind.

"Proko?" he heard again, this time softer, combined with two hands on his body, keeping him still. Proko settled a little and blinked up at the person above him. Harsh eyes softened by sleep, an arched nose that the old Prokopenko used to trace with his finger tip, thin lips pulled back into his usual sneer, though now it looked more worried than angry.

Kavinsky lifted him up and Proko let him, ever trusting despite Kavinsky's usual treatment of him. It was these moments, however, that evoked that trust. These fleeting seconds where he was pressed against Kavinsky's chest as if he tried to protect Proko from the world. Where Kavinsky made him a bath with some nice smelling oils and kept him in his lap as they waited for the water to warm. Where Kavinsky helped him undress and insisted on placing him into the bath himself, never straying from his side.

It was in the warmth of the water that Proko finally felt his bones settle in, his skin feeling like it fit again and not just an uncomfortable coat he was wearing to hide his true self behind layers of somebody else. 

"Same one?" Kavinsky asked, his voice still rough from sleep but a gentle hand carding through his hair. Proko wanted to tell him his sleeves were getting wet but he knew Kavinsky didn't care, not in these moments. 

Proko nodded and bit his lip, looking away. He traced some water droplets down the wall, following their path. Anything so he didn't have to look at Kavinsky and see the pain in his eyes, the guilt that he had caused this. 

They stayed like that until the water turned cold, Kavinsky's hand in his hair, scratching his scalp as gently as he could manage while Proko looked everywhere but at Kavinsky, wishing this moment would never end. 

But it did. All good moments with Kavinsky came to an end at some point. Proko tried to hide how cold the water had gotten, not wanting to lose Kavinsky's touch, one he usually only felt on his wrists, holding him down during another fit of restlessness Kavinsky needed to loosen somehow, or in the hand wrapped around his throat when Kavinsky tried to teach him how to behave. 

He never did learn. 

He had shivered once and the hand was gone, draining the bath instead and wrapping a towel around his shoulders that Proko dried himself off with quickly. He slipped back into his pyjamas then and followed Kavinsky back to their room, crawling into bed while Kavinsky laid down on top of his own, his back turned to him.

And that had been the end of it. For tonight at least. There would be another nightmare in two, maybe three days. It was sick, in a way, that Proko learned to look forward to them despite him dying in the nightmare every single time, feeling himself bleed out on the ground, the burns too painful not to scream but his voice not working anymore from the fatigue. But these were the moments that Proko saw glimpses of Kavinsky, the way he used to be with the old version, the way  _ this _ Proko desperately wanted him to be now.

He didn't sleep again but he still felt groggy when Kavinsky kicked against his bed to get him to move. Proko slipped into his uniform, the clothes fitting just a little off, signs that as much as Kavinsky had wanted to, he couldn't get Proko just right, not the way he had been. Proko then shoved some food into his mouth before following Kavinsky out, sitting down in the familiar space of the Mitsubishi, his heart racing when Kavinsky revved the engine and sped away, all screeching tires and an howling motor. 

Proko slammed forward when Kavinsky stepped on the brakes, his seatbelt holding him back from flying through the window. The nightmare briefly flashed before his eyes again, smoke filling his lungs. Kavinsky's expression was unreadable then and Proko realised he hadn't remembered putting his seatbelt on in the first place, he must have been hardwired by Kavinsky to put it on without having to think about it. History was not something Kavinsky was keen on repeating.

They both breathed out heavily for a moment, lost in the shared memory, real and forged, recounting the events that had led to Kavinsky's descent. And then Kavinsky ripped himself away, slamming the door shut and stomping towards where Ronan Lynch was standing, smirking up at him, his face prepared for a battle he hadn't even thought up a cause for yet, but he would find one. Kavinsky always had a reason to fight.

It was Jiang, this time, who hauled him out of the car, leading him to the lockers for the sole purpose of not having to watch the person he was bound to love most in the world, flirt with someone else. 

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong," he said as he watched Jiang dump some books in his bag, hardly any of them corresponding with the actual subjects they had but at least he was making an effort, probably Swan's doing. 

"I know," Jiang said simply and smiled at him sympathetically. "It's okay, it's not your fault that you're not like him. Not entirely, anyways." Proko swallowed hard at that. 

"I'm trying," he said, his voice soft and pleading and Jiang's shoulders dropped a little. He knew the real Proko's death had been devastating for more people than just Kavinsky but he tended to forget about it as everyone in the pack still acted normally towards them despite the distant look in their eyes. "I'm trying so hard."

"I know," Jiang said again and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, a peace offering. Proko had asked the pack many times what the old Proko had been like. He wanted to know how he talked, how he behaved, what his favourite food was, anything to try and replicate him for not only Kavinsky but the entire pack. Sometimes they told him little things, about how Proko used to sing and dance around the dorms in the early mornings, waking everybody up but too lost in the music to care that it sounded like shit, how Proko used to swear by his hangover cure which was just some blended fruit with some orange juice poured into it but it had actually helped. Most of the time, though, the pack stayed silent, too consumed by their own grief to remember their friend when they had a forgery they could depend on. 

School was a pain, always had been. Back in their dorm, Kavinsky had no choice but to acknowledge him in some way but here Kavinsky was free to do as he pleased and that included staring at Ronan until he came up with something smart to say and do the same thing over again until the end of the day. 

Kavinsky sauntered back to the car where Proko was already seated, eager to go back to his dorm and steal one of Kavinsky's pills. He was bored from school and he felt restless still from this morning and he wanted to do nothing more than to lose himself in Kavinsky's drug inducing hazes, floating instead of falling for once.

"Finally convinced Lynch to suck your dick?" Proko asked and he watched Kavinsky's hand clench, probably imagining it was Proko's bared neck, that had been one way in which Kavinsky had killed him, leaning over him with both hands wrapped around his throat, tears shining in his eyes.

Proko liked to push Kavinsky's buttons because then, when Kavinsky disliked him, at least he had a reason to instead of just loathing Proko for his existence. Now, though, with the rage in Kavinsky's eyes, Proko knew not to push further or he'd lose it completely. Restless energy was already brimming underneath Kavinsky's skin as well but it was a whole other kind of restlessness, one that predicted high speeds and intoxicated thoughts, bad decisions made in the dark so you didn't have to deal with the consequences once the sun came up.

"You're going racing," Proko said, his voice soft now, meeker, something he probably had never been but Kavinsky made him into because it was easier to handle than someone who fought him every step of the way. Kavinsky liked fighting but he never felt like going through the effort of fighting with Proko.

"And you're not coming with me."

Proko had seen it coming; he never was allowed to race with Kavinsky. Proko didn't know if it was because of the accident or because he wanted personal time with Ronan Lynch or a combination of both. He wished Kavinsky brought him along, wanting to prove to Kavinsky that he could still do that as well, that he still liked the way his heart raced when he sped down the road, feeling like he was on top of the world and jumping off without a safety net to catch him. 

Instead, he watched as Kavinsky got ready in their dorm room, making himself look extra nice for another guy while Proko was left behind to wait for him like an obedient dog, something he never was in his past life.

"Don't crash," he said when Kavinsky walked out of the door, trying to give him a reason to stay even if that meant he wouldn't be able to see out of one eye the next day. Kavinsky paused by the door, giving Proko hope that he would turn around and look at him again, acknowledge him in some way. The little hope that unfurled in his chest was reduced to ash when Kavinsky kept walking and slammed the door shut behind him without another word, another glance back.

Proko curled in on himself in bed, asking himself, not for the first time, why he was really there. If Kavinsky despised him so much, why not just dream up a new version. He secretly prayed that it was because he began to care about Proko too much, that somewhere, hidden beneath all the layers of pain and anguish from the grief he had had to endure, he actually cared and liked him even if it was minimal. But, if Proko was honest with himself, he knew it was all because of his power that would have to recharge. As easy as Kavinsky made dreaming seem, it wasn't without its limits, nothing was. Pulling a whole human out of your head with that many details ingrained into them cost power and energy, none of which Kavinsky had now to dream up someone new, someone better.

Proko waited for an hour, then two, glancing at the door every few minutes to see if Kavinsky would walk in, but he wouldn’t until much later after Proko had taken a shower and slipped into some pyjamas, briefly thinking about stealing a shirt from Kavinsky but quickly shaking it off, knowing the consequences would be enormous. Proko had brushed his teeth and slipped into bed, covering himself protectively in the duvet, hiding himself from the world.

Two hands on his body woke him up, one hand moving up his chest, the other moving down to play with the elastic of his pyjama pants. His touch was searing on Proko’s skin and he couldn’t help but lean into it. Kavinsky’s hands were calloused and it made Proko shiver. From the smirk pressed to his bare shoulder he could tell Kavinsky knew he had persuaded him already.

Kavinsky came back like this often after midnight races with Lynch, on edge and fidgety, hands roaming Proko's body like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. This is how it always started, with Kavinsky roaming his body, pulling strangled gasps and soft moans from Proko's lips. 

It wasn't because of Proko that Kavinsky wanted this. No, it was always because of another race lost or more advances made towards Lynch rejected. That's when he came to Proko, mouthing his neck and pressing biting kisses into his skin until Proko nodded.

Proko wanted this too, the sex, the touches, the pretense that Kavinsky wanted this with  _ him _ , that he choose Proko because he wanted him and loved him, not because Lynch rejected him yet again. In these moments, Proko could close his eyes and pretend that those hickeys on his skin meant something other than a way to make him moan and that he would leave them on Kavinsky as well, claiming each other as their own.

There were fingers tugging on his pants and Proko kicked them off quickly, shivering when Kavinsky's hands roamed up his thighs and squeezing hard, the imprints on his hand left to be found later when the morning regret settled in and Proko looked like he had been debauched in a fit of passion while Kavinsky looked no different than usual, his skin free of Proko's traces. 

He was never his to love anyways.

Kavinsky fumbled in the nightstand for the lube. He'd hurt Proko once by forgetting, they both had, during another night filled with nicotine, dreamt up drugs and cheap alcohol. Never had it happened again because as much as Kavinsky may dislike Proko for what he was, watching the face of the person he had once loved the most contort in pain during sex was something he never wanted to see again.

Kavinsky's fingers were clumsy, they always were but Proko didn't mind, he encouraged him to keep going with soft sounds and a hesitant pull on Kavinsky's hair. It was always a guessing game how far he could go, what was allowed and what wasn't. He had once asked for a kiss and Kavinsky had laughed in his face. 

His wrist was slammed to the bed with force, his fingers quickly untangling from Kavinsky's hair. Proko didn't apologise and Kavinsky didn't ask for it but instead slid another finger inside of him, a threat that he would go faster if Proko pulled something like this again. Proko sometimes wondered if Kavinsky enjoyed this himself, the roughness, the messiness, how quickly everything was over, left forgotten to not touch again until Kavinsky came back full of unreleased energy to use up Proko and Proko let him because he loved him and because these moments of pretense were what got him through life, if you could call it that.

It was Kavinsky's eyes that reassured him that he actually liked doing this with Proko too to some degree, even if it wasn't intentional. Kavinsky always had fire in his eyes but it was when he looked down at him, Proko's legs wrapped around his waist, Kavinsky's hands steadying him as he slid inside, his grip just a little too tight, that Proko felt as if he was on fire. 

There was a pause when Proko got adjusted to having Kavinsky inside of him, drops of sweat rolling down his arched torso, his mouth permanently opened in little pants, but it didn't last long. Kavinsky started to move soon after, the moment of quiet broken by the loud moan he wringed out of Proko. And then it was on.

Kavinsky moved his hips like he had something to prove, more to himself than to Proko. His wrist was still pushed down to the bed, the other one mirrored on the other side of his head, even without Kavinsky's hand holding that one down. 

There was a hand moving up his body, in the direction of his neck. Proko froze a little before forcing himself to relax again as Kavinsky's hand closed around his throat, his fingers loose but present, not pushing down yet but the threat lingering in the air between them.

Proko had uttered Kavinsky's name then, his real one, the nickname the old Proko had whispered to him when was still alive and Kavinsky had done the same, only then had Proko’s eyes shone with trust, the discussion and safewords they had before still fresh in his mind. This Proko's voice was fearful, knowing what Kavinsky's hands could do and knowing he wasn't excused from it. He wasn't special, he could be next.

Kavinsky's hand dropped away and clenched into the sheets instead. Proko wanted to move his own, inches away from Kavinsky's, and hold it but refrained, knowing Kavinsky would pull away. 

He thrusted his hips harder then, maybe as revenge that Proko hadn't reacted like the old one would have or maybe because he wanted to get it over with. Proko hiked his legs higher around his waist, encouraging him with moans and gasps and anything he could to make this good for him. 

Proko wrapped a hand around himself and Kavinsky hadn't said anything or acknowledged that he had. It had always been apparent that Kavinsky cared about his own pleasure alone, not for the first time had Proko been left to deal with himself alone, Kavinsky already back in his own bed, his light turned off.

It wasn't long before Proko felt a familiar pull in his stomach and he gave himself over to it, coming between them with a hoarse cry. He tried to catch his breath as Kavinsky continued to pound into him, his thrusts now bordering on painful. Proko breathed out deeply once Kavinsky came as well, his forehead briefly resting on Proko's chest. The moment lasted mere seconds but it felt as if they had been trapped in a world of their own. Proko almost lifted a hand to card through Kavinsky's hair but then came his voice, the first words spoken to him that night.

"Don't _ever_ call me that again."

Proko immediately felt cold when Kavinsky tore himself away, moving to the shower and leaving Proko behind in the soiled bed, alone and shaking, from the cold or his words Proko didn't know.

It took him a lot not to burst into tears right there. Instead, he waited for Kavinsky to finish and showered himself, not caring about changing the sheets right now, not when he could still smell the mixed scents of him and Kavinsky in it, that and the bruises littering his skin the only evidence of what they had done.

He cried himself to sleep that night, as he did most nights. He begged whoever was listening to give him a nightmare again, to give Kavinsky a reason to touch him again, even if it was just for a few seconds. Despite his silent pleas, he fell into a dreamless sleep, forcing him to face the next day with Kavinsky's icy voice still in his ears and do it all over again. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on [Tumblr](prokopinsky.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://prokopinsky.tumblr.com)!


End file.
